


Forbidden

by nayahasmyheart



Category: Glee
Genre: Drama, Romance, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-15
Updated: 2012-05-17
Packaged: 2017-11-05 10:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/405583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayahasmyheart/pseuds/nayahasmyheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: World War II. Brittany, a distinguished Aryan, is forced to move to Auschwitz, a new concentration camp, where she mostly keeps to herself. But love has a mind of its own when her eyes fall on a miserable, broken gypsy who's being brutally tortured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Grave Promise

“Heil Hitler.”

I walked inside with my chin tucked deep into my white blouse. The heavy wooden door slammed behind me and I raised my gaze cautiously.

I was standing in the corner of a glamorous chamber. Lengthy, velvety curtains, painted with menacing swastikas, draped over the tall windows. Ominous paintings decorated the walls, and the largest, in the far end of the room, was of the Führer. An elongated table was situated in the center of the room, with over a dozen high-backed chairs surrounding it. Four men were murmuring heatedly among themselves until they noticed my presence.

“Welcome, Fräulein Pierce,” an aged man in a Nazi army uniform and a faded gray crew cut rose to his feet, followed by the other three men. He motioned for me to sit in a vacant chair at the opposite head of the table.

My heels clicked on the marble floor as I made my way to the makeshift throne. I seated myself and straightened my back properly, as I was taught, while my hands folded neatly in my lap. I was anxious and nervous beyond words, but it was imperative for me to please the officials.

“Behold, gentlemen,” began the senior. “The Aryan race at its finest. Beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, German. Satisfying, isn’t she, Richart?” he turned to the man sitting to his left.

The man twisted his neck to me and eyed me judgmentally. His close-cropped, auburn hair shone in the dim sunlight above his cold, bleached cobalt eyes. His thin lips were clasped together over his obtrusively square chin. A hungry look began to slowly dominate his face. 

The elderly man’s lips raised in a cheerful sneer that was not reflected in his bitter eyes. He turned back to me. “Do you know who I am, Fräulein Pierce?”

“Herr Von Richter,” I uttered hesitantly, my eyes fixed on the clenched hands in my lap.

“That’s right,” I heard his raspy voice reply serenely. “Aldous Von Richter, Oberstgruppenführer, or General, of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party. The Nazi Party. Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?” 

There was a low buzz of accord from the three men. The one named Richart still had his ravenous gaze on me.

“Your father is a fine man, Fräulein Pierce,” Herr Von Richter continued. “A true gentleman. It was a pleasant surprise when he so easily consented to give you away.”

A traitorous lump formed in my throat as I willed my eyes not to emanate tears. It was still unknown to me why my father had decided to give me away. Did I not serve as a faithful daughter?

“Fräulein Pierce, I’d like you to meet your fiancé, Richart Eberhardt. He’s a distinguished Gruppenführer, Major General, of the Nazi army.”

My frightened eyes fell on my future husband. He blinked in response. “Hello, Herr Eberhardt.”

“Hello, Brittany,” his voice was soft yet chilling.

“Why don’t you give her the ring, Richart?”

Herr Eberhardt cocked an eyebrow, then reached into the coat of his military uniform and extracted a small black case. He flicked it open with his index finger and slid it to me across the table. It came to a halt about a foot away from me, so I reached an uncertain hand and grasped it gently.

I brought it to my face and examined it carefully. It was a platinum ring with a timid diamond attached to its rigid body. I rolled it delicately in the palm of my hand, then gazed back up at the opposite end of the table.

Herr Von Richter’s eyebrows were elevated in expectation. I held the promise between two anxious fingers and slipped it around the fourth digit of my left hand.

“Good, good,” the elder nodded his head thoughtfully. “Then it’s settled. Fräulein Pierce, or, as you soon will be named, Frau Eberhardt, your fiancé has been appointed First Commandant of a newly operational concentration camp in southern Poland. Auschwitz, one of our most glorious territories. Great things will happen in Auschwitz, I assure you.”

I didn’t know what a concentration camp was, but the fact that I would be moving to Poland slowly sunk into my mind. Away from my friends, away from my family, away from my life, away from everything I knew. I will be alone in the brutal hands of this harsh man in this secluded camp.

“Your train leaves at eight A.M. sharp tomorrow morning, Fräulein Pierce, so I suggest you return home and pack your belongings.”

I stood up abruptly, perhaps too abruptly, and made my way out of the looming room. I was led down a shadowy hallway and back into the entrance hall. My father, hat clenched in his thick hands and beads of sweat shining on his forehead, waited for me by the grand staircase.

“Well?” he demanded rapidly.

I held out my left hand so that the ring would be clearly visible. “Thank the Führer…” he muttered in relief and swept an arm across his moist forehead.

I remained gravely silent as my father drove his BMW down the rough roads. The car slowed down as we reached our modest apartment in the center of Berlin.

“Where have you been? What’s happened?” my mother dashed down the stairs to greet us in the lobby of the decrepit building.

“Brittany’s to be married to a fine Nazi Major General,” my father marched past her and up the stairwell.

“Brittany’s…what?” her voice was fragile as her light eyes squinted in torment. She turned on her heels and hurried after him. “You can’t give her away like that without telling me!”

“I had no choice,” I heard him say from upstairs as I dragged my incredibly heavy feet up step by step.

“What do you mean, you had no choice?” she screeched loudly. “She’s eighteen, Christof! Fresh out of secondary school, and you’re sending her away forever!”

“She’s an Aryan, Gretchen!” he roared. “A property of the state! Herr Von Richter asked for her, and I obliged! There was nothing to be done!”

I walked past them into my room and shut the door. The tears that had been so aching to flow down my face were finally given their solemn wish. I sat on my bed and wept miserably, hopelessly lost and petrified.

The door creaked open and the angel in my life, the shining star that kept me warm in the freezing cold, walked mournfully into the room. My little sister, Anna, curled up next to me as I put my arms around her.

“Will they take me away, too?” she whispered into my shirt. 

I gazed down at her blonde hair, striking blue eyes, countless freckles. She was an Aryan, perfection in human form, just like me. She was facing the same cruel fate that I was about to experience.

“No,” I lied as I kissed her hair gently. “They will never take you away.”

 

\- - -

 

The living room was grimly hushed as our intimate family felt itself break to incoherent pieces. Two large beige suitcases stood by the door in the first rays of sunlight. Anna’s head leaned on my shoulder, her hand desperately gripping my olive-toned dress. Tremors of panic passed through me as I gaped at my home, my childhood, my memories.

A firm knock sounded on our wooden door. My father, his large belly hidden under a striped suit, twisted the doorknob and swiftly opened the door to reveal a stern Herr Eberhardt. I felt Anna’s body shiver as she gawked at the ominously tall soldier. 

Without speaking a word, Herr Eberhardt grabbed one suitcase in each hand and began to descend the stairs. My father motioned for me to stand up and follow him.

“NO!” Anna locked her arms around me and began to sob hysterically. My father pried her feeble grasp off of me as my mother leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek.

I stumbled out of the apartment and, without looking back, walked down the stairs into my very own personalized hell.

Herr Eberhardt did not say a word to me during the car ride to the train station. I doubted that he was too shy to speak; he simply did not find me interesting enough to bother.

The train station stood gloomy and elevated in the early hours of the morning. As we walked to the gate, I took notice in the way people would stare at us in awe. A true Aryan couple. We were everything this country stood for.

Our train was proudly nouveau, the latest advancement in technology. We entered a confined space that contained a twin bed and a tiny bathroom.

I situated myself carefully on the bed as the train began to bounce up and down. Herr Eberhardt gazed at me, blinked, and strolled out of the room.

We were on the train for eighteen hours until we reached Krakow. I slept for about four of those hours and spent the remaining fourteen lying in bed, wide-eyed with fright. Herr Eberhardt did not return to the room until the train began to brake noisily.

The Krakow train station proved to be just as drab as the one in Berlin. The reactions of the Polish citizens to our presence, however, was entirely opposite of the ones of our people. They glanced at Herr Eberhardt’s uniform with fear and quickly walked in the opposite direction, as if we were touched, infected, by some incurable disease.

We had to wait in the station for three hours until the train to Auschwitz, small, peeling, and ancient, arrived at the gate. My fiancé heaved the suitcases onto the train car and sat down in one of the vacant chairs. I took a seat in the opposite row.

This train ride, which lasted a mere two hours, was spent with quick, apprehensive peeks at a quite indifferent Herr Eberhardt.

I gazed outside of the window behind me. I could see a massive territory occupied by somber structures and surrounded by a great fence in the horizon. As we neared the gates, a sign at the entrance of Auschwitz became clearly visible: “Arbeit Macht Frei.” Work sets you free.


	2. A Broken Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU: World War II. Brittany, a distinguished Aryan, is forced to move to Auschwitz, a new concentration camp, where she mostly keeps to herself. But love has a mind of its own when her eyes fall on a miserable, broken gypsy who's being brutally tortured.

The train screeched to a somewhat sudden halt and the doors slowly slid open. Herr Eberhardt straightened out his uniform with the palms of his hands, seized the suitcases, and, without a single glance at me, left the creaky beast.

I stood and made my solemn way out of the train. The first thought that struck me as I reached the cool air was that there was this horribly nauseating smell of dead animals. I knew that it wasn’t proper to do so, but I really felt like I was about to vomit, so I cupped my hand over my mouth and nose. The stench seeped in through my fingers as I held back a massive gag.

I carefully gazed around me. I was in a minuscule train station within the deadly fence that surrounded the camp. Everything seemed so gray. Gray bricks, gray roofs, gray sky, gray mood. A fancy Mercedes automobile stood gravely within the gloom. Its shiny black doors reflected the aged train behind me. A frightened man in a navy driver’s outfit and hat was loading the suitcases into the trunk of the sleek Mercedes with some difficulty. Herr Eberhardt was sitting in the back seat, his face hard and somber.

My hand still protecting my face from the horrendous reek, I walked to the car and hesitantly opened the back door.

Herr Eberhardt snapped his head to me, glared, and came back out of the car. He walked around to the petrified man, who was now just closing the trunk.

“What is your duty?” Herr Eberhardt barked.

The poor man cowered under his glower. “To serve you.”

“When a woman approaches the vehicle, you will leave everything you’re currently doing and open the door for her,” Herr Eberhardt’s crazed eyes bore holes into the man. “Do I make myself very clear?”

“Y—yes, Herr,” the man truly looked like he wanted to break down and cry.

“Good.” Herr Eberhardt leaned back into the car and retook his seat. The man scurried to the door and held it open for me, his fearful eyes on the ground.

I wanted to tell him that it was okay, that it wasn’t his fault that he was preoccupied. I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t that important and that I can open doors by myself. But one look at Herr Eberhardt told me that if I spoke kindly to the man, I would receive equally cruel punishment.

“Thank you,” I said softly so that only he could hear as I craned my neck and sat by Herr Eberhardt. 

There were dark curtains over the back windows that prevented me from gazing outside while the man drove the car. I felt myself slightly recline as the vehicle made its way up an elevated hill. Before I knew it, the automobile was slowing down and we came to a stop. The man hurried out of the car and opened the door for us.

I slid across the leather seat and stood on my shaky heels. Before me sat a large, white estate with a baby blue roof and matching curtains in the insides of the windows. It looked so cheerful, so out of place in this ominous misery.

Herr Eberhardt marched toward the house. He turned, gave me his signature blink, and motioned for me to follow him.

My shoes made chafing noises in the gravel as I made my way to the tall front door. A thin woman in a maid’s uniform with aging gray hair and generous eyes stood outside the door to greet us. Herr Eberhardt completely ignored her and simply walked into the house. I climbed up three steps to the wooden porch, made sure that Herr Eberhardt was not able to see, and smiled sweetly at the woman. A look of slight surprise washed over her face, but she quickly recovered and returned a wonderfully comforting smile.

I stepped into the house and found myself in a large living room. The first thing to catch my eye was the menacingly ample portrait of the Führer. I was devoted to my country and to our leader, but was it really necessary to have his stern eyes and meticulously linear moustache glare at us from every wall?

The room was occupied by floral couches and a vast crimson carpet. An outsized grand piano sat innocently under an elongated Nazi flag.

I heard the door shut behind me. The maid walked to me, gazed around the room, and gently said, “So what do you think of your new house?”

I shrugged my shoulders uncertainly. “It’s okay.”

“Come,” she put a caring hand on my shoulder, “Chaim has made dinner for you.”

She walked me into a grand dining room that contained a lengthy table and about a dozen chairs. On the table were two sets of porcelain plates, crystal wine glasses, and golden silverware.

I took my seat opposite Herr Eberhardt, whose square chin was pointing expectantly toward a door to the left. On cue, a small, balding man hurried out of the door with plates of dishes stacked on his frail arms.

He looked as if had just recently lost a very large amount of weight. His skin sagged over his meatless bones and his dark hair stood in weird places. A white apron wrapped around his slim body and his face, while anxious, was benevolent.

He laid a generous dish of barbeque pork ribs on the table, followed by a side of mashed potatoes and a plate of steamed vegetables.

He quickly began to serve Herr Eberhardt, and then me. I realized that I hadn’t eaten in almost a day as the deliciously appetizing aroma percolated my nose.

I risked a threatened glance at Herr Eberhardt. He was already immersed in his meal. I spread out a white cloth napkin over my knees, picked up my knife and fork, and politely began to eat.

The smell of the food did not disappoint. As my pleased stomach filled, I vowed to, when Herr Eberhardt was not around, compliment the man on his gift for cooking.

After we had cleared our plates, the maid appeared to take them off of the table. On her way to the kitchen door, her ankle gave out under her and she tripped, creating a great tumult of leftover food and shattered porcelain.

I quickly stood up and leaned down to her. “Are you okay?”

A chair creaked behind me. “Brittany.”

I turned around to meet the face of a bitter and agitated Herr Eberhardt. He stood on his firm legs and beckoned as he left the room.

I looked uncertainly at the maid, and she simply nodded for me to follow him. I straightened and made my way back to the living room. 

Herr Eberhardt was waiting for me. “I don’t want to see you care for them again.”

I gulped and stared down at the thin carpet.

“They’re Jews, they don’t deserve your pity or your kindness.”

I kept my eyes on the ground. There, again, this hate for Jews. Something I never understood.

One of my closest school friends, a girl named Amit, was Jewish. We didn’t have the chance to be friends for long, however. The Nuremberg Laws were passed, and she was not allowed to attend our school anymore. Our instructors began to teach us why we were superior to the Jews, why they weren’t worthy of the things that we were.

It always confused me. They were people. They had noses, and mouths, and eyes, and ears. They had memories, families, lives. They could feel joy, they could feel sorrow, they could feel love, they could feel hate. They could live, they could die. Why them? What made them so different that they were singled out by an entire continent?

“Understand?”

I nodded my head, even though I really didn’t. He walked around me and up the wooden stairs.

I stood in the living room for a little while longer until I decided to return to the dining room. The mess that had been made was long gone, and the maid was cleaning up the table. She gazed up at me as I entered the space.

“It’s very kind of you to care, honey,” she began. “But it’s not worth it. You’ll only anger him.”

I nodded gravely. “What’s your name?”

“Ora,” she smiled gently.

“That’s a beautiful name,” I said quietly.

“Thank you, sweetie. And yours is Brittany, yes?”

“Yes,” I replied coyly.

“Come, Brittany. I’ll take you up to your room.”

She led me up the stairs and down a gloomy hall. We entered a dimly lit room with a spacious bed and a humble nightstand. “Thank you,” I smiled at her.

“Mhmm,” she turned on her heels and hurried down the steps. 

I turned back to the room. My beige suitcases were set in the corner, by the antique closet. I walked to them and began to unpack.

After taking a shower, I returned to the room and snuggled up in my bed. I felt so lost, so alone. A miserable tear swam down my face as I thought about what the future would be like with Herr Eberhardt for a husband.

The door groaned behind me and a ray of light shone into the room. I turned in my bed to see Herr Eberhardt’s shadowy figure standing in the doorway.

My body shook fiercely as he neared my bed. He ripped the blanket off of me and quickly and expertly removed my clothes. I let out a small cry as he shoved his strong pelvis into me.

All of the hopes that I had ever had for pleasurable sexual intercourse were thrown out the window. All of the rumors and the hurried whispers in the halls of my secondary school vanished into thin air. It was excruciating and shameful. It was no less than torture.

 

\- - -

 

When I woke up in the morning, I felt so sick that I had to dash to the bathroom. I had horrible cramps, like the ones I have during my menstrual cycles, except a full world and back more painful. 

I washed my face in the bathroom sink and gazed up at myself through the mirror. I was an Aryan. I was supposed to feel beautiful and powerful and superior. But all I felt at this moment was terrible weakness and shame.

I returned to my room and put on a short white slip under a thin blue dress that streamed down to my knees. I carefully walked down the stairs, glancing around for any signs of Herr Eberhardt. He was nowhere to be found, thank the Führer.

I walked into the kitchen to be met by a hard-at-work Chaim. He gazed up fearfully at me from the scrambled eggs that he was cooking. “Fräulein Pierce.”

“Please, call me Brittany,” I said reassuringly. 

Ora walked into the kitchen. “Brittany, darling, you’re up! Chaim’s been making breakfast for you!”

Chaim gazed at her quizzically, and then back at me. “Oh,” Ora noticed his confusion. “Brittany’s a real sweetheart, Chaim. There’s no need to be afraid of her.”

I smiled sweetly at him to back up her statement. He grinned back joyously. “Well,” his voice was sarcastically humorous. “Guess there are some nice Aryans after all, huh? You don’t think that you’re greater than us, then?” he turned to me.

“We’re all people,” I said simply.

They both looked at me with so much appreciation that I blushed. “God,” Ora shook her head. “I wish there were more like you, Brittany.”

I smirked down at the ground. It was nice to have them here with me, in the middle of all the chaotic loneliness. I felt like they were my long-lost grandparents.

Chaim served me the scrambled eggs along with some plump sausages and a few strips of bacon.

“Thank you,” I said as I looked up at him. “But you don’t have to cook pork for me. I know that, because you’re Jewish, cooking pork might make you uncomfortable.”

Once again, both he and Ora gazed at me incredulously. “Bless you, child,” he smiled as he returned to the kitchen.

Ora sat down in front of me. “Now don’t let your fiancé catch you being nice to us, alright? We want to keep you.”

I grinned and began to eat Chaim’s flawless breakfast. After a few moments of silent chewing, a question popped into my head. “What happens down in the camp, Ora?”

She slightly opened her mouth, as if about to speak, and then closed it. She shook her head miserably. “You don’t want to know, honey, believe me,” she sighed.

If you tell a curious eighteen-year-old girl that she doesn’t want to know something, she will obviously go looking for it. So after breakfast, I told Ora that I was going out for a walk and left the comfort of the house.

I strolled to the side of the tall hill and gazed down. The house was situated outside of the fence, but I could see that the only road that led up to it went right through the camp. The buildings inside the jagged fence seemed like orderly barracks in a military base.

I began to walk down the road toward the camp. After around ten minutes, I reached a small gate, guarded by a very young man in a Nazi army uniform.

There was such an innocence, a purity, about him. His rosy cheeks shone under his olive green eyes and chestnut hair. The large weapon that was cradled in his feeble arms looked so out of place. 

He looked at me alarmingly. “Fräulein, I really don’t think you’re supposed to be around here—”

“Please,” I pleaded. “Can I just go in? I’m the fiancée of the First Commandant.” 

He hesitated. “Well…” He bit his lip. “I guess, if you’re the fiancée of the First Commandant…” He turned around and used his key to unlock the gate. He slid it open and held out a hand to let me through.

“Thank you,” I turned to him. “What’s your name?”

“Rolf, Fräulein.” His dimples showed as his lips rose into a shy simper, “Rolf Liepold.”

“Well, thank you, Rolf Liepold,” I smiled and walked through the gate.

The camp seemed deserted as I walked between the looming structures. As I advanced further in, the dreadful smell of death returned to my nose, almost persuading me to turn back. I mustered up my courage and continued to wander through.

I began to hear noises; shouting sounds and crying sounds. I walked around another intimidating building and stopped dead on my tracks.

At least a hundred people were running in a full circle around the area. What made me cringe, however, were their naked, vulnerable bodies. The men had their hands over their private areas as the women held one hand over their breasts and the other over their sexes. About a dozen Nazi soldiers stood around them, occasionally picking out some and sending them to one of two lines.

I hurried to one of the soldiers. “What are you doing?”

The woman looked at me skeptically. Her cruel black eyes twinkled under her matching inky hair. “Sorting them out.”

“For what?”

“Those who are capable to work go to one line, and those who aren’t go to the other.”

An aged woman fell to the ground as the soldier spoke. She was quickly dragged out of the circle and thrown into the rightmost line.

This is a concentration camp? A concentration of people? But why? What did they do? 

I couldn’t bear the sight anymore, so I turned and continued on. Around the next building, I found a scene almost more horrific than the last.

Hundreds of people in filthy gray garbs stared at me, wide-eyed and utterly petrified. Their heads were completely shaved and their bodies so meatless that you could easily see every bone. As I walked through the masses, they parted to make way for me.

I heard hysterical, high-pitched cries and manly grunts as I made my way to the other side of the square. I looked to my left, where the sounds seemed to be coming from.

Three burly soldiers were beating a frail woman with the butts of their guns. She was curled up on the ground, attempting, and failing, to defend her bare scalp. The uniformed men pushed her back, forcing her legs in front of her. She brought up her head, tormented, and opened her eyes.

Even with the lack of hair and meat, even with tears flowing down her cheeks, she was the most beautiful person that I had ever seen. Maybe it was her dark, desperate eyes. Maybe it was her plump lips, so out of place in all of the boniness. I don’t know what it was. But at that moment, I knew. I knew that she was different. I knew that I would do whatever it takes to protect her from the claws of those brutal men. As they pushed up her grimy garment and began to unzip their pants, my voice rang loudly and clearly through the square.

“Leave her alone!”


End file.
